


they will burn

by Limonium



Series: the only place i want to be [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fem!Harry, a short soulmate drabble for this damn ship, i wrote this when i was half-asleep im sorry, i'll tag what prompted this later, idk proper dialogue im sorry, very tropey and cliche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limonium/pseuds/Limonium
Summary: (Fire. A blaze steadily rising, a fervent whisper of—)(–I know you.)Harry suspected it within the week of keeping the diary. This Tom Riddle, Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy, too smart and too charming—“You’re my soulmate.” she says.And he is.And you are mine, he knows.





	they will burn

 

 

“No, please. _Please_ , “

 

Not Tom. Not when she had him.

 

"Look at me, please. Look—”

 

Within her, the bond rapidly ripples and thins.

 

 _“Don’t leave me alone,”_ she pleads.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _She tried to flush it down the toilet_ , Moaning Myrtle said.

 

Harry’s curiosity reared its head when she recognized the black diary in the girl’s bathroom on the second floor (a diary that was once slipped in the youngest Weasley’s cauldron that day in Diagon Alley). She warily picked it up, the leather-bound journal cold, wet and dripping, and almost drops it as a sudden warmth dribbles into her fingertips.

 

 

(Warmth just like hello, a firm hand-shake or a polite nice to meet you, is what she vaguely feels.)

 

 

When the night comes, and she’s dried it over with a drying charm, she’s excited and a bit apprehensive but quickly grabs a quill and an inkwell and—

 

 

 _Hello,_  it says—writes,

 

_My name is Tom Riddle. Who are you?_

 

 

(Harry could almost hear the scratch on paper as her eyes follow each smooth glide.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Potter.”

 

Harry stands still like a statue. Her hair is longer, strands tinged-red from the rising sun and it waves along the slight morning breeze.

 

“Potter, you need to rest.” Draco calls from the balcony doorway. When he still doesn’t get a response from his cousin after a few minutes, he contemplates bringing in his mother. Harry has been expressionless and near catatonic after the war.

 

And then she was like stone after the burial.

 

 

The burial that was two days ago.

 

 

(The marker says: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. And words written in Parselscript.)

 

(When Draco asked Harry what it meant, his cousin said: _My heart. My soul. To thee I am eternally bound._ )

 

 

This needs to stop or she’ll pass out from exhaustion, he thinks. Draco turns to leave.

 

“They need to burn.” she says.

 

Draco pauses.

 

“They’ll all burn with my own hands or I’ll never find rest. Not after what they did.”

 

Harry turns to him.

 

“This hole in my chest will never heal.”

 

Draco sees the Dark Lord’s locket tightly clutched in her thin fingers.

 

 

“They will burn.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“She won’t wake.” Tom says and in his hand, Harry’s holly wand was humming.

 

 

(Humming like wind-chimes and will-o-wisps gliding in the dark. Echoes in a seashell. The rapid flapping of a wing.)

 

 

Harry stifles a surprised gasp when she hears him, turns to him quickly and—

 

Tom inhales, sharp, the sound barreling around the chamber along with the drip, drip of Hogwarts century-old plumbing.

 

They stare at one another, frozen in shock, the wand humming, thrumming in the space between them, and then, something within flickers.

 

 

A spark bursts, once—

 

 

(Strange. Unknown, unrecognizable.)

 

 

Twice—

 

 

(Fire. A blaze steadily rising, a fervent whisper of—)

 

They both blink.

 

 

The flames on the pillars swivel back and forth, and Harry slowly, ever so slowly approaches him with wide-eyed awe and too much emotions and lungs too full.

 

Tom waits, the clack of Harry’s shoes reverberating, clack, clack, clack it goes; goes in sync with his non-existent heartbeat and—

 

 

(—I know you.)

 

 

And he watches her keenly with a knowing gaze and slight disbelief.

 

 

Harry suspected it within the week of keeping the diary. This Tom Riddle, Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy, too smart and too charming—

 

“You’re my soulmate.” she says.

And he is.

 

 _And you are mine_ , he knows.

 

They couldn’t see it, but it’s there. A tangible thread, effervescent and encompassing, twined strings that bound them.

 

A soul-bond.

A soul bound.

 

 

_(I know you.)_

 

 

Tom drops her wand and reaches for her.

 

_(You know me, it whispers._

_You know me.)_

_(And I know you.)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Why must we suffer for the greater good? When no one ever asked of me, of Tom, of what we would’ve wanted? When no one ever tried to understand what we would’ve needed?” Harry screams in anguish, Tom—no—Lord Voldemort’s body held in her arms.

 

“You blame him of war, blame him of the loss of lives but have you ever looked at yourself? I blame you for being the catalyst that set him on his path! He wanted change! He needed help but you turned your back on him!” Her magic crackles along with her (anger? pain? loss?) and the ground shakes. Fiendfire in the form of the mighty Basilisk guarding around her, slithering, burning, a steady hissing blaze of fire.

She couldn’t feel Voldemort’s presence anymore.

 

The present Death Eaters gathered behind her are filled with sorrow and determination. Years they had waited, and it’s true a few strayed from the vision their Lord once had and sullied their cause… but after their Lord was reborn, things changed. The Dark Lord may have perished in the hands of the enemy, but his bonded remains.

 

_Harry Potter._

 

Their hope for victory remains.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_A Soul-Bond, or specifically a soulmate, is a magical phenomenon classified under Soul Magick. It is a bond between two souls that are believed to…_

 

_It is relatively connected to the M.B.S. or Mind-Body-Soul theory mentioned in Chapter 7 and the Patronus theory in Chapter 14. Other branches of Magic that was said to also fall under Soul Magick are Necromancy, Elemental Magic, Wish Magic…_

 

_Soulmates are rare as this phenomenon occurs only every hundred thousand years. Magical experts say…_

 

“Harry, what are you reading?” Hermione asks.

Harry quickly turns the book away from her. Thank Merlin Tom was as paranoid as Moody and had the foresight to teach her disillusionment spells in Parseltongue.

“Something for our Transfiguration Essay. Did you know? There was a wizard who successfully transfigured water into something solid and maintained it for almost three months?”

“Really?” Hermione’s eyes lit up in interest. Harry thinks listening to Tom blab about academic milestones and achievements was worth it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“My head hurts!” Harry screams into the walls of the Room of Requirement. The diary on the floor is opened to one of its empty pages, sleek strokes in black ink fill the yellowed paper.

 

**You need to focus if you wish to master Occlumency.**

 

Harry glares at the page. She fishes the ball-point pen from her cloak pocket and writes: **we’ve been doing this for hours, let me rest you git.**

 

**Alright. Once we resume, focus on the task at hand and stop worrying about the old geezer.**

 

**Fine, fine. I’ll take a nap.**

 

“Like I’d let the headmaster find out about you. You’re still a git, though.” Harry says under her breath as she wills the room to provide her with a proper bed.

 

 

* * *

 

_Padfoot…_

_Wake up, Sirius!_

_Padfoot!_

_My goddaughter is no fool and no man’s tool! She’s but a child!_

_Padfoot. Open your eyes, please…_

_Miss Potter, as stated in Sirius Black’s will, you are to become Heir Black upon his death–_

_Padfoo—_

 

 

“They killed him.” Harry wearily mumbles into his pale neck. He hasn’t left her side since she arrived, dried tear tracks on her pinkish cheeks, her pajama bottoms streaked with mud from sneaking out through the Honeydukes passageway. He continuously strokes her head, her body cradled close in his lap, his other arm wrapped possessively around her thin waist.

 

He didn’t need to say anything. Just as Harry didn’t need to explain anything. Their souls know everything. It was a transparent and constant channel between the two of them. What he feels, she feels. What he breathes, she breathes.

 

“Spend the night.” Voldemort says as he kisses her forehead. Harry wraps her arms around his neck.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The people around them paled at the proclamation. Soul-bonds are rare, a fated gift from Magic herself, an existence revered and celebrated in the Magical World. Soulmates are beings that are closest to what Magic is—only personified. It is but blasphemy to them of breaking such a thing. A crime that deserves suffering. The loss of your other half–one cannot imagine how much pain Harry must be in right now.

 

“You murdered him. And for that you will _die_.”

 

The basilisk made of fire attacks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I wasn’t alone this summer.” Harry whispers to him while they lie in bed. Harry sneaked out again using her cloak and the Marauder’s map. Her letter said that she had wanted to show him something and it couldn’t wait until Hogsmeade weekend.

 

He turns his head slightly to look at her. Harry’s eyes looked a little older and somber after her godfather’s death but there was a shiny bit of mirth in there.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks. Harry then reaches for a chain underneath her shirt while the other reaches for his hand. She places the golden locket between them. Her smile glitters along the reflected moonlight from the open windows, the emeralds in the Slytherin heirloom mirroring her green, green eyes.

 

“You were with me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“My dear girl, this was all done for the greater good. Everyone knew what his continued existence would entail.” Albus started, cautiously and slowly walking towards The-Girl-Who-Lived.

 

“I knew back then, that he carries with him suffering and too much dark magic. He would never see witches and wizards, no matter what magic they carry nor blood to be equal. Tom may have been a bright child but it was too late for him. Your parents saw the same and fought. Why do you remain on his side?” Albus said.

 

The basilisk burned brighter and bigger, the flames pushing back a number of the Order Members to remain a good distance away.

 

 _“You lie!”_ she spits. Harry remains kneeling on the ground, the Dark Lord’s body held tightly close to her, her face leaning against a pale forehead. Her eyes track the Headmaster’s approach.

 

“Aren’t you talking about yourself Albus? You pinned all your fears on Tom, because all you could see was Grindelwald. You made sure to put an end to him because of paranoia. You didn’t want to see a repeat of history, but all you did was make more mistakes. You fed everyone with nothing but lies!”

 

Albus flinched at Grindelwald’s name.

 

“You know nothing of the previous war you foolish child—”

 

“You killed my godfather! And ordered the murder of my parents! You’re the one who drove Tom mad!”

 

The basilisk lets out a roar of fire and the headmaster conjures a barrier of water. Most witches and wizards gasped at Harry’s accusations.

 

“Why don’t you tell them Albus, the most recent of crimes you have committed? Tell them how you struck me down to die! But Voldemort—,” Harry’s breath hitches, the empty space within her digging her insides into nothingness, “—Voldemort sacrificed a part of himself so I may live,” She cries.

 

Harry waves her hand quickly and sand and rubble rise in the air, thins into fine grains that swirl into sharp pointed shards of stone. A flick of her finger then sends them towards the aged wizard who struggles with a defensive barrier against a barrage of stones. Harry’s magic created an endless cycle of it and it continuously drains Albus of his power.

 

“And—you—you killed him! My bonded. My soulmate.” Harry almost whispers.

 

 

 

No amount of surprise could’ve prepared Dumbledore for her devotion to Him (and Him, to her).

 

(Does a horcrux not impede their fated gift, or, does it thicken, fortify the bond between them?)

 

But it doesn’t matter now that the end is so near.

 

 

He will not lose here.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I think you look a bit…” Harry tilts her head sideways, eyes taking every inch of the painting in consideration, “… _younger?_ ”

 

Voldemort offers her a small smile. “It is to match your age.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Or would you prefer my present self?” Voldemort walks further into the room, waves his hand and all the paintings that were finished yesterday line up in front of Harry.

 

“Let’s do both, I guess.” she says. Her face softens when she sees the one wherein they were asleep side by side in the Dark Lord’s bed. If Voldemort wasn’t watching her he would’ve missed it.

 

“Alright.”

 

“And maybe another for the locket?”

 

This time it’s him that feels all too warm inside.

 

“As you wish.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

But then, they always fail to see that Harry’s eyes speak of death, knows of death and has seen it more times than she can count.

 

That within her, death sings a continuous lullaby of her own loss, that the beating of her heart is a pounding rhythm of only one instead of two, and that her mind is a silent, empty void.

 

 

_(A man lies in her arms. A Lord of power and ambition. A man broken into several pieces but makes her whole.)_

 

 

_(Don’t leave me alone.)_

 

 

_(They will burn, she said.)_

 

 

And so the end came.

 

 

_(A slithering and crackling flame of fury, a loud cry of anguish for the half that was left behind.)_

 

After all, Lord Voldemort drew his strength from anger, turned them into ash to mark his victories and filled his holes upon striking his enemies down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The hidden door within the Black Library cracks open. A figure slips in, bare feet too careful and quiet as it nears.

 

Tom Riddle, for the first time since waking up in the painting (one of the hundreds he and Harry had made), gets up from where he was lying on the bed.

 

_“Harry.”_

 

 

Harry reaches a hand to stroke a familiar face of mixed paint and too much magic.

 

 

“Hello, Tom.”

**Author's Note:**

> i totally forgot about the philosopher's stone lmao
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos, comments and feedback are loved!


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